


Tells – the Whispers in the Dark mix

by Zoe Rayne (MontanaHarper)



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: F/M, M/M, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-09-19
Updated: 2005-09-19
Packaged: 2017-10-11 20:26:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/116734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/Zoe%20Rayne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's all a matter of perspective.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tells – the Whispers in the Dark mix

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Restricted Work] by [casspeach](https://archiveofourown.org/users/casspeach/pseuds/casspeach). Log in to view. 



> Written for the 2005 SGA Remix.

  
**Gives a detailed account of; narrates. ( _verb, t._ )**   


She's tired and she's angry and she really has no idea what she's doing here, and it's that last fact that nearly leads her to turn her car around and go back to Cheyenne Mountain. Except that all there is for her to do at the SGC is micromanage her staff, and she saves that for people she's dating, at least according to Simon.

Stewing about it is obviously not making anything better. She slams the car into park and shuts off the ignition, taking out on it the frustration she hadn't allowed herself to express in front of Simon. It's a sad commentary on their relationship—their _former_ relationship—that she doesn't trust him to see her vulnerable, to see the human parts of her.

When the door opens after her knock, John looks surprised to see her, though she's not quite sure why. Surely Rodney doesn't knock at his own door, and she doubts they get many other visitors. She makes all the polite noises, though, in case he _is_ expecting someone else; the last thing she wants right now is to feel like she's in someone else's way.

But no, John smiles and invites her in and shows her to a kitchen table that looks as though it's been through a tornado or two. "Can I get you a drink?" he asks as he shifts Rodney's laptop out of the way, and the words bubble out of her before she can think.

"If you have bourbon, I wouldn't say no." And now she's shocked him, shown him a side of her that he doesn't expect, but he recovers quickly and offers her Jack Daniel's. Somehow, though, she doesn't mind John seeing her vulnerable. After all, her life is in his hands on nearly a daily basis, at least when they're back home in Atlantis; she trusts him—and Rodney, as well.

So when he asks about her evening, about her dinner with Simon, she tells him the truth, albeit an abbreviated version: "Didn't go quite as anticipated." It's euphemistic, but it still cuts her open to say the words, and John seems to get that as he hands her the glass of whiskey with a gentle brush of fingers that's not strictly necessary.

The whiskey burns as it goes down, but it's the good kind of burn, the kind that reminds her that she's alive and warm, and not the cold, heartless bitch Simon seems to think.

"He's not coming back with us," she says, watching John's eyes as they fill with understanding and something akin to sympathy. She wonders who John Sheppard left behind when he shipped off to the Pegasus Galaxy, and whether the mystery woman had been pleased or irate when he suddenly reappeared on her doorstep. Most likely the latter, considering John was staying with Rodney for the duration.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

There's something in his tone, some note of deeper understanding, that makes her continue, "He's met someone." She still can't believe she missed all the warning signs, and says as much, feeling the weight of John's sympathetic gaze on her the whole time.

There's something about the way he looks at her that sends a tingle of heat racing up her spine, or maybe that's just the whiskey, settling low and smooth in her stomach, its warmth spreading slowly outward. She thinks maybe John cares more than he's showing, thinks maybe he's relieved that Simon won't be coming with them after all, and she's not really sure what to make of that. She lets him refill her glass, and drinks it without thinking, her mind focused on putting together a coherent picture from the puzzle pieces that are John's behavior.

John opens his mouth, but whatever he's going to say is lost in the commotion at the front door as Rodney arrives home, half-hidden behind an armload of groceries. He makes it halfway to the table before he seems to notice her sitting there, and when he does his forehead furrows with something like worry. "Elizabeth? I thought you were—"

"Didn't go so well," John interrupts quietly, sparing her from having to repeat the story. Rodney looks over at him and there's a moment of silent communication between them before Rodney sets the groceries down.

"Oh," he says, and there's understanding in his voice but no pity, and Elizabeth is thankful for that. She couldn't stand to be pitied right now. "So, are you staying?"

The unexpected compassion surprises her for a moment, and then she feels guilty because she knows Rodney well enough not to judge him solely by the abrasive aspects of his personality.

"I hadn't really...." She's not sure what to say, what to think. She doesn't want to impose on them, but Rodney seems sincere enough. A quick glance at John, who still looks concerned, and she says, "That would be nice. I know it seems a little...well here we are with the whole world to visit and we end up...."

"It's okay. We understand." And John says it so tenderly that for a second she's afraid she's going to cry, except that she _never_ cries, and now is absolutely not the time to start. She may trust them to see her vulnerable, but that doesn't mean she wants them to see her drunk and maudlin. Pushing away the empty glass, she follows John's gaze to where Rodney is putting away groceries. She feels the corners of her mouth turn up a little; Rodney looks surprisingly comfortable in a domestic setting.

He steps through a doorway and his voice echoes back to her as he says, "It's like that guy in 'Rita Hayworth and The Shawshank Redemption,' the one who couldn't get used to not being in prison anymore."

It takes her a second to parse what he's said and to put the title together with vague memories of Tim Robbins and Morgan Freeman. "I saw that film, I think," she says. "It was quite good."

Rodney snorts. "Please," he says, reappearing and leaning against the counter. "It's the only halfway-decent King adaptation, apart from _The Shining_. Kubrick's version, obviously. The book's still better though, of course."

John is shaking his head as he goes to put his glass in the sink, and it's obvious to Elizabeth that this is a discussion they've had more than once. Their bickering is comfortable and familiar, and she lets herself sink into the sound of their voices, only surfacing briefly to give an 'I don't care' shrug when the subject of dinner comes up, and then again to take the beer John offers.

Rodney catches her attention, though, when John holds out a bottle to him and he pushes it away. "I want to be clear-headed for tomorrow," Rodney says. "And I'm nervous, so if I start I'll probably end up wasted."

And they've both been so supportive of her, the least Elizabeth can do is to listen, so she asks, "Nervous?"

Between the two of them, they tag-team an explanation for her, about Rodney's sister and nephews coming all the way from Canada to visit, since Rodney's spending his vacation time at the SGC, comparing notes with Samantha Carter.

"They're going to go skiing while they're here, too," Rodney says. "It's not like they're flying all the way here for dinner and conversation."

Something about the way he says it makes Elizabeth sad; it's almost as if Rodney doesn't feel like he alone is worth his sister and her family making the trip. Before she can pursue the subject further, though, their food arrives and their talk turns to more casual things. By the time they're done eating, there's really no subtle way to redirect the conversation back to Rodney's family, so Elizabeth lets it drop, making a mental note to pay more attention to Rodney's interactions when they get back to Atlantis. She's assumed he has friends—other than his teammates, of course—but now she's worried that she might be wrong.

Even after the three of them have moved from the kitchen to the living room, Rodney channel-surfing with abandon and John sitting beside her on the couch, simultaneously too close and not close enough, her thoughts keep returning to the same place. She can't help but worry about her people.

She's glad, though, that Rodney apparently feels like he can turn to John in these kinds of situations. "So are you here as moral support for Rodney?" she says to John. "That's sweet."

John shrugs, and she recognizes it as a deflection, part of what she thinks of as his _aw, shucks, ma'am_ repertoire. She's not quite sure what he's hiding when he hauls those gestures out, but she's absolutely certain that it's something.

He says, "It's not like I have anywhere else to be."

And that's another deflection, changing the subject away from anything meaningful. She lets it go, though, because it doesn't matter whether or not he admits it; she can see that he cares about Rodney, cares about his entire team. A lot of terrible things have happened to them in the year since the expedition left Earth for the Pegasus Galaxy, but she thinks maybe some wonderful things have happened, too. They've become a family, looking out for one another, and she hopes that won't change too much with the addition of the new personnel they'll be taking back with them aboard the _Daedalus_. It's nice to know there's someone at your back.

"I wish I'd taken one of you with me to see Simon," she says without thinking. "Not that I realized I'd need moral support, of course."

Really, she didn't mean to bring that up, but Rodney hums thoughtfully, then says, "I'm sorry things didn't work out for you. I guess you grew apart huh? Living in separate galaxies will do that." She can almost see the thoughts coalescing in his head as he speaks, and then he's frowning at her. "Although I thought he was short-listed to come back with us. Carson was saying something...what?"

She doesn't need to see the look John is shooting at him to know what it looks like; she's seen it dozens of times before. While she appreciates the effort, ignoring the situation isn't going to make it go away, so even though it's a blow to her pride to admit it, she says, "He's not coming. He's met someone else, and I don't think he ever had any intention of coming."

She sees Rodney's expression change, watches as uncertainty, pity, and finally discomfort cross his face. For all that he claims to be unable to bluff, he seemed to do a good enough job with Kolya; it's only with people who are close to him that he lets his guard down, lets something more than temper and arrogance show through.

"Oh," he says, and she wants desperately to stop him before he goes any further. "Oh, Elizabeth, I'm—"

She cuts him off with a wave of her hand. "No, it's okay," she says. "I'm okay, it's just...I didn't really expect him to wait for me, but...I really don't see why he couldn't have just told me right away."

Again his face is a kaleidoscope of emotions. "Hang on a minute." Confusion. "Didn't you go to his place three days ago?" Anger. "So, what? He just met someone _today_? Son of a—" Protectiveness.

As flattering as it is that he cares enough to be angry on her behalf, it's really not worth it. Simon's not worth it. "It's okay, Rodney. Really, it's—"

"It's not okay," he says, shaking his head. "It's a shitty way to treat someone is what it is." He's absolutely right. Not that she didn't already know that, intellectually, but until Rodney put it into words she hadn't quite come to grips with it yet.

"Yes, it is," she says, and she really means it. "He put Carson in an uncomfortable position as well, which I'm not happy about. I'm better off without him; in fact, I think we all are."

Rodney snorts and turns his attention back to the television. "Obviously," he says, dismissively. "Doesn't take a genius to work that out."

She can't help but smile at that. She feels strangely protected here, in the company of these two men. It's a relief to let herself be a human being, let herself be a _woman_ for a change. Tomorrow she faces the outside world again, her eyes hard and her spine steel-straight out of necessity; tonight, she'll take the freedom to be herself, along with whatever comfort John and Rodney are willing to offer.

It probably wasn't a good idea to have that beer, or even the second glass of whiskey, because she suspects she's getting maudlin again. John's thigh is warm under her hand as she levers herself off the couch. "I'm just going to go tidy up a little," she says, blinking back the threat of tears. "Which way is the bathroom?"

They both stand, but Rodney puts a gentle hand on her arm and leads her through the master bedroom to a small, tidy bathroom. A moment of rummaging in the medicine cabinet and he produces a brand-new toothbrush. "Here," he says, handing it to her, then he points to the cabinet under the sink. "Fresh towels in there, and I'll leave something for you to wear on the bed." He slips past her and is pulling the bathroom door closed behind him as he finishes, "You'll take my room, of course."

She wants to argue, but he's gone already and she can hear dresser drawers opening and closing in the next room. With a shrug, she turns on the water and sorts through the towels for a washcloth.

As Rodney promised, there's a soft black tee-shirt and a pair of forest-green sweats waiting for her. She ignores them for the moment, in favor of going back out into the living room and trying to convince Rodney that she has no intention of taking his bed. John and Rodney are standing close, heads bent together and talking quietly, and they both look up at her as soon as she steps into the room. John's eyes widen a little, and she wonders if she really looks that bad.

She steps closer, letting herself be welcomed into the intimacy of their personal space and putting one hand lightly on John's arm. "I'd like to turn in," she says, a warm buzz of desire making her skin flush. "It's been a pretty horrible day, and I've had a little more to drink than I should have."

Rodney nods. "The master bedroom is all yours. I'll be in the spare room, and Sheppard's taking the couch." He says it so matter-of-factly, as though it's all been decided, and Elizabeth can't help but shake her head.

"No, I couldn't put either of you out of your beds, Rodney. I'll take the couch—"

"Elizabeth—" John starts, but Rodney interrupts with a firm, "No," and John closes his mouth.

"No," Rodney repeats. "You're taking the master bedroom, and you're getting some sleep. We'll be fine, Elizabeth."

She wants to argue, but Rodney's wearing his determined look, and she's really not up to that kind of battle, so she relents. "Thank you," she says, and though she leaves the rest unspoken, she thinks from the look in John's eyes that he, at least, understands what she means.

  
**Makes known; reveals. ( _verb, t._ )**   


Even with the door closed behind her, she can hear whispers of sound coming from the living room, and she wonders if they're arguing over which of them has to sleep on the couch. It was a little cavalier of Rodney to claim the other bed when John is a guest, as well. It was also pure Rodney. Not that John would let him get away with it if he really had a problem with the arrangements, so she has to assume that they're out there bickering just for the sake of bickering.

She slips out of her clothes and into the oversized tee-shirt; she's still flushed and too warm from the whiskey and beer, and so she sets the sweats aside. Turning out the light, she slides between the crisp sheets of the king-sized bed, and for a while she drifts, her thoughts swirling dizzyingly and keeping her from being able to relax enough to sleep.

She's close to dozing off, though, when her attention is caught by a rhythmic undercurrent of sound. She can't quite place what the sound is, but now her brain is awake again and she can't help trying to puzzle it out. Quietly she slides out of bed and steps over to the door, tilting her head as she listens.

A whisper of rough breath, the rhythmic rustle of fabric, and with a rushing awareness that leaves a knot of arousal heavy and tingling in the pit of her stomach, she realizes that it's John. Her imagination easily fills in the details: John's lean, athletic body, stretched out on Rodney's couch, one hand wrapped lazily around his hard cock, stroking slow and easy.

She's not sure how long she stands there, frozen in place, her breath coming more quickly in time with the soft sound of John's hand on his cock, and then there's a muffled gasp and it's over. She closes her eyes for a second and wills the pounding of her heart to ease up. The slow tease of desire that's been building in her all evening is now a deep, aching need, and there's nothing she wants more than the feel of strong, agile hands and a warm, wet mouth on her skin. She reaches for the doorknob.

Then she freezes again at the sound of the other bedroom door opening and closing. For a split second, she considers turning the knob anyway, stepping through the doorway and into the living room. She can almost feel the caress of two pairs of hands on her skin; she hasn't felt this reckless—this wanton—in years, and there's a part of her that just wants to let go, to follow her desires.

She's not sure if the urge is a result of the alcohol she's consumed, or of her earlier realization of the implicit trust she places in John and Rodney, but she's pretty sure it would be a bad idea, no matter how desperately she wants it right at this moment.

Her hand drops to her side and she returns to the bed, frustrated but all too aware of her position as leader of the expedition; she's expected to live up to far stricter standards than the rest of them, and most of the time she's okay with that. Right now, though, she wishes she didn't care so much, wishes she could just give up that responsibility for one night.

Lying in bed and staring up at the ceiling, she's tempted to follow John's example, to relieve the tension that's been building in her since the first touch of John's fingers on hers as he handed her the glass of whiskey. But she can hear whispers from the living room, and if she can hear them then she's fairly sure the reverse would be true, so she tries to relax and let the soft sounds of movement from the next room lull her into sleep. No one's ever died of sexual frustration, after all.

Again, she's nearly asleep when something—some _sound_ —cuts through the comfortable haze and sets her brain in motion. This time she's quicker to recognize the rhythm, to connect it to self-gratification. No whisper of fabric and skin this time; instead it's a gentle, repetitive thud against the wall that separates her room from the one Rodney is occupying. She's momentarily irritated by the unfairness of the situation, by the double-standard that requires a broad wink and a pretense of ignorance when it comes to John or Rodney (because "men have _needs_ "), yet would leave her faced with blushes and stammering discomfort if their situations were reversed.

And then she's the one blushing, as the soft whisper of voices drifts through the wall and the quiet thumping abruptly stops, and she suddenly realizes Rodney isn't alone. That surprises her—probably more than it should, considering it wasn't too many minutes ago that she was considering sex with him herself—but it also explains why he insisted on taking the second bedroom and leaving John on the couch. Privacy.

She knows that it's as unfair of her to assume Rodney doesn't have a girlfriend as it is of him to assume John has one in every port. Still, Rodney's never given any indication that he left someone back on Earth. Though now that she thinks about it, she does remember him mentioning Colonel Carter with a note of wistfulness in his voice, but based on their interaction at the SGC, she never would have guessed they were involved.

Of course, it could be someone else entirely; apparently, John isn't the only puzzle around here.

For a little while there's silence, and Elizabeth finds herself straining to hear the faintest of noises. She probably should be ashamed of this unexpected voyeuristic impulse, but at the moment it's difficult to feel contrite. As much as she'd like to blame it on the Jack Daniel's, she's not at all sure that the heat and arousal radiating from the pit of her stomach can be dismissed as simply the effects of a few shots of eighty-proof whiskey.

Then the quiet rumble of voices starts up again, and Elizabeth sucks in a ragged breath as the low-level buzz of _want_ that's been tingling between her legs is ratcheted up a notch. If she's completely silent, not even daring to breathe, she can make out a soft laugh and then what sounds like a stifled moan, and by this point she's given up on resisting the urge to seek release. Rodney and his girlfriend are distracted, and making enough noise themselves; they'll never hear the tiny sounds Elizabeth can't quite mute—her shallow breaths, the faint rustling of the sheets as she stretches out and lets her thighs fall open, the wet sounds of her fingers sliding slowly inside.

The moans from the other bedroom are a little louder now, enough so that Elizabeth can recognize the timbre of Rodney's voice, and as she traces slippery fingertips lightly over her clit, she can't help but think about what might be going on just a few feet away, on the other side of the apparently paper-thin wall. It's surprisingly easy to picture Rodney sprawled naked in bed with Samantha Carter—her body strong and lithe, straddling his hips as she slowly lowers herself onto him, letting him feel every inch of the wet heat as it engulfs him.

A small part of her mind warns that she's never going to be able to meet his eyes in a briefing again, but she dismisses it. Tonight doesn't count.

As Elizabeth's own hands move into a familiar rhythm, she thinks about Rodney's hands and wonders if they're clenched on Sam's hips as he pulls her down onto his cock, or if Sam has his wrists pinned to the mattress and is forcing him to take it slow. She suspects it's probably the latter; she can hear the thread of need running through his moans and she can't imagine Sam as anything other than one hundred percent in control, even in bed.

Usually Elizabeth takes her time, letting the sensations build slow and easy until her thighs are tight and trembling and her breath comes in shuddering gasps, but tonight she doesn't want to wait, doesn't have the patience for it. Tonight she needs to be overwhelmed, needs the endorphins and the release.

She feels a sense of kinship with Rodney as she listens to his increasingly urgent moans; closing her eyes, she envisions him, lips parted and face flushed, his fingers tangled with Sam's in an unconscious echo of the twining together of their sweat-slick bodies.

Elizabeth's own body moves in sync with barely heard susurrations of fabric on skin, her fingers working harder and faster as the tempo and volume in the next room increase, until it's her turn to bite back the moan that wants to escape her throat as she's overwhelmed by sensations.

"Please, John, I need...." Rodney's words are clear and distinct, though still very quiet, and Elizabeth freezes, stunned out of the aftershocks of her orgasm. For a second she's sure she must have misheard. The next words she hears are muffled, but there's no question that it's John speaking, his voice low and rough with desire.

At first she can't believe it, despite the evidence of her ears, and her mind races to find another explanation. She can't think of a single one, though—not that would account for the obvious sounds of passion that have been emanating from the next room. As the faint whispers and sounds of shifting bodies continue, she wonders how long this has been going on. She likes to think that she's an observant person—it's certainly a trait that's benefited her in diplomatic situations in the past—but really, she had no clue at all that John and Rodney were intimate.

With the puzzle pieces falling into place, though, she sees the telltale signs she missed before. She recognized John's affection, but misinterpreted it as a leader's affection for those under him. The mental image that turn of phrase evokes—Rodney literally under John, their two masculine bodies sliding against one another—is sexier than she expects.

She feels like she should be embarrassed, now, or maybe even ashamed that she's still thinking about what might be happening in the other room; somehow it seems like it should be worse, the original transgression compounded by the fact that it's not just one but two members of her team she's eavesdropping on. She tells herself again that tonight doesn't count, promises herself that everything she hears and thinks and wants here in the darkness will be put away come daylight, never to be thought of again.

"Fuck, Rodney. You are so...just...fuck." There's an undercurrent in John's voice that sounds almost broken, and it makes Elizabeth ache for him in a completely different way.

Part of her is shocked at the words, too—unreasonably so, she knows, because she's under no illusions about the casual vocabulary of the military personnel under her command. Still, she's never heard John swear before, and it occurs to her that he's censored himself around her. That knowledge is enough to distance her from what's going on next door, enough to make her realize that yes, John looks at her differently than he looks at Rodney or Lieutenant Ford or Sergeant Bates, but not differently in the way she thought.

That shouldn't be as surprising as it is, given the situation, but she suspects she hasn't really processed the fact that John and Rodney are lovers, and so it's hitting her unexpectedly fast and hard, especially coming right on the heels of her break-up with Simon. She pushes the feelings to the side, chastising herself for feeling rejected when John and Rodney have done nothing but be there for her.

Things have obviously reached completion next door while she's been thinking. It's probably for the best that she was distracted and missed the details; it'll make it easier for her to face them both in the morning. There are a few quiet whispers, and then silence descends. She lies awake for a few more minutes, her mind still reeling with new information.

She truly believes that John won't let his feelings for Rodney interfere with the way he does his job—at least no more so than he lets his feelings for everyone in Atlantis interfere, she thinks wryly—and so it really doesn't matter who he's sleeping with. Though she will need to keep a closer eye on the situation now that she's aware of it; there's no way she's going to let the U.S. government railroad her military commander because of a policy that's both short-sighted and discriminatory.

This is another one of those things, though, that she's going to have to keep from John, because she's sure he won't appreciate any interference on her part. That's not going to stop her from interfering, if necessary; she'll just have to make sure she's discreet.

  
**_Poker._ Conscious or unconscious acts which provide a clue as to the nature and quality of a player's hand. ( _noun, pl._ )**   


When Elizabeth first wakes up, there's a moment of disorientation until the memories of the previous day flood in and she can feel herself blushing. That's going to have to stop, she tells herself sternly before slipping out of bed and making a quick bathroom stop. As she dresses, she finds herself glancing around the room, almost unconsciously seeking out signs of John and Rodney's cohabitation.

On the nightstand, she catches sight of an issue of Science, bristling with Post-It notes, and a copy of Sport Aviation, lying open to an article on vintage warbirds. She wonders if they're unaware of how incautious they're being, or if they simply felt safe enough in Rodney's cabin to relax their vigilance a little.

She opens the door as quietly as she can and steps into the living room. Unsurprisingly, the couch is empty, though the comforter that's spread out on it is rumpled, and she has a brief flash of John lying there as she pictured him last night. She refuses to be distracted, and moves resolutely over to the kitchen table where it looks like there's a poker game in progress, and she wonders if it's evidence of John's attempt to distract Rodney from his worries about today and his sister's arrival.

She realizes she was right about John being here as moral support for Rodney, but it goes further than just that. John's not reckless. Well, okay, he _is_ reckless, but only with what he feels is a good enough reason. Obviously, he felt that spending the night in Rodney's bed was important enough to risk her waking early and finding him missing from the couch.

Which she's pretty certain means he loves Rodney.

And that thought makes her smile. Even with her own relationship in a shambles, she can't help but feel happy for them. Life in Atlantis isn't easy; anything that makes it more bearable, more joyful for any of her people, is something that she can't help but be pleased about.

All too aware that neither of them would be pleased if they knew she'd been eavesdropping on them, she decides to wait back in the bedroom and wait for signs of activity before reappearing. A quick scan of the kitchen table nets her a spiral notebook and a pen; she can organize her thoughts before today's meeting with the senior staff at the SGC.

It's at least an hour later before she hears movement in the room next door. Tearing the sheets she's written on from the notebook, she folds them and slips them into her pocket, and then goes to stand at the bedroom door and wait for a sign that it's safe to emerge. The soft sound of a door opening and closing is followed by movement in the living room and kitchen, and then the faint smell of coffee brewing.

That's almost enough to draw her out, but then she hears more sounds from the spare room—Rodney waking up, presumably—and so she waits another few minutes as he moves out to join John. Still trying to get a feel for their relationship, she listens to the snippets of conversation that drift through the door.

The sound of Rodney saying her name startles her for a second; they haven't mentioned her up to this point, and she's not sure where the change of topic came in. Then John says, "Very funny," and she decides it's time to put in an appearance. As she's opening the door, she hears him continue, "Did you sleep okay?"

Rodney's eyes dart up to meet her, though his words are directed at John: "Very well thank you. And you? I hope the couch wasn't too uncomfortable."

She has to fight the urge to smile, because Rodney's obviously trying so hard and is completely out of his depth. She takes pity on him, moving over to the table and saying, "Yes, I hope you weren't too uncomfortable. I do feel bad for inconveniencing you."

That much is true, too. She's sure that they would have been louder and more uninhibited if not for her being in the next room, though she can't help but wonder if maybe her presence—and the possibility of being discovered—didn't provide a little extra frisson of excitement. She pushes the thought away ruthlessly; she will _not_ think about John and Rodney and sex any more today.

John hands her a cup of coffee as Rodney pulls out a chair for her—and who knew he could be so chivalrous?—and she sits, pretending to let the aroma of the coffee wake her up.

Rodney is smug as he says, "We weren't inconvenienced in the slightest," and Elizabeth has to hide her smile behind her mug. She's not surprised when John snipes at him before turning to reassure her that he, too, had been fine.

"We Atlantians should look out for one another."

John looks at her and rolls his eyes at Rodney's pronouncement, and she grins back at him. She can tell, though, that Rodney's distracted. He's watching the clock and the front window, and he's fidgeting.

"What time does your sister arrive?" she asks, and John shoots her a surprised look. She's not sure whether she should feel offended that he thinks her so unobservant, or rueful because she's given him cause to think that. She nods slightly at him, and it's meant to be both an acknowledgment and a warning. _Don't get complacent,_ she wants to tell him, and, _Don't make assumptions._

When it becomes obvious that Rodney's not paying attention, John answers for him. "Not for a while yet," he says. "After lunch."

"Sorry," Rodney says after a moment, glancing back at them. "What? Yes, after lunch. I'm going to go get showered and dressed, in case she's early." He sets down his empty coffee cup and heads for his room, leaving her alone with John.

  
**Gives instructions to; directs. ( _verb, t._ )**   


She tries to make her excuses and leave, suddenly feeling like she's intruding in their home and their lives, but John doesn't seem willing to let her go quite yet. He extends the conversation to the point where she almost feels she needs to say something about her new knowledge. She's sure he's not doing it intentionally, but she recognizes the tactic: make your opponent uncomfortable enough, with small talk and silences, and they'll blurt out the most unexpected things.

She bites her tongue. She's not going to do that.

Finally, John says, "There's really no hurry. I doubt Jeannie is going to be three hours early, and she said she'd phone when she gets into the Springs so we can give her directions."

Elizabeth wonders if John realizes how much he gives away when he says things like that. It's the way he slips so easily into talking about himself and Rodney, using "we" in the same way she used to talk about herself and Simon. The words are tinged with a sense of intimacy.

She's is suddenly overwhelmed with gratitude for John's presence here. Rodney deserves someone to take care of him. They both do, really, and she's glad they've got one another. The task of protecting the two of them, of keeping their relationship a secret from anyone who would use it against them, suddenly becomes a higher priority. They can take care of one another, and she's got their backs.

"Be that as it may," she says resolutely, standing up, "I'm still going to go. I delegate the task of keeping Rodney calm until she gets here to you, Colonel Sheppard. I have faith that you're up to the task."

And she does. If anyone can handle Rodney, it's John, and vice versa.

John held the door open for her. "I wish I shared your confidence in me," he said. "And don't think I don't know that this is actually you shirking your responsibilities."

She can't help but grin at that; she wants to give him a hug, too, but she's pretty sure that would be misinterpreted and so she settles for squeezing his arm quickly instead.

"Shirking and delegating can be very close together at times," she calls back over her shoulder, playing along but knowing all the while that really she's neither shirking nor delegating—she's giving Rodney over into John's care, where she knows he'll be safe. "See you Thursday."

Thursday, when they'll be boarding the _Daedalus_ for the trip home. She's looking forward to it.


End file.
